Chapter 5:Off-Key
834 Words
Mondays were a kind of purgatory.
Not the hellfire of exam weeks, not the heaven of Friday nights. Just the endless gray middle. The kind of day where even the coffee tasted tired, and the sun couldn’t commit to shining or hiding.
Our project group was set to present an initial pitch to the faculty advisors today—a “light preview,” as Professor Evans had optimistically described it. The room, unfortunately, didn’t get the memo. Half the tech setup was malfunctioning. The projector glitched. Jonas forgot to export the video montage in the correct format. And Celine was late.
Again.
I stood at the front of the presentation studio, adjusting the tripod for our scale model visuals while trying not to glare holes into the door. Harper sat beside the laptop, her usual easygoing demeanor now noticeably fraying.
“Did she say anything this morning?” Harper whispered.
“No,” I replied, flipping through my notes. “Did she say anything last night?”
“Only that she’d be here early. Guess early is relative.”
Professor Evans tapped his pen against his clipboard. “Are we still waiting on someone?”
Before I could answer, the door slammed open.
Celine burst in, hair tousled, guitar case slung over one shoulder, earbuds hanging loose. Her expression flickered between apologetic and annoyed. “Sorry, sorry. The bus—never mind. I’m here.”
I wanted to say something. Something scathing. But the words lodged in my throat.
“Let’s begin,” Evans said, not unkindly, but the warning was clear.
The presentation started rough and got worse. Jonas’s transitions were out of sync with the visuals. The slideshow skipped. Harper fumbled one of the architecture boards. I tried to pick up the slack, explaining the spatial dynamics of our mixed-media installation. And then it was Celine’s turn.
She pulled out her phone and tapped something. A beat began to play—something ambient, layered with faint vocals. Then she opened her mouth to sing.
It was the wrong key.
I don’t mean metaphorically. Her pitch was off. Her timing was rushed. The reverb was too high. And for someone who always seemed so effortlessly musical, Celine looked shaken—sweating, one hand trembling as she gripped the mic.
After thirty painful seconds, Professor Evans lifted his hand.
“Let’s pause there.”
Celine froze. Harper gave a small gasp. Jonas glanced at me, uncertain.
“That’s clearly not the finalized arrangement,” Evans continued, delicately. “Would you like to try again?”
“No,” Celine said quickly. “I mean—it’s not ready. Sorry.”
Evans looked at me next. “And your visual integration?”
“It’s in sync with the final track,” I said. “Or it was supposed to be.”
Silence. And then a nod. “I suggest you regroup and refine this. The concept is strong. The execution today wasn’t.”
We were dismissed.
Back in the hallway, the four of us stood in a stunned circle, the air heavy.
Jonas sighed. “Well. That sucked.”
Harper rubbed her forehead. “Celine... what happened?”
“I choked, okay?” she snapped. “I messed up. Can we move on?”
“No, we can’t,” I said sharply. “We’ve been working for weeks. We needed you to show up prepared.”
“I was prepared! I just—”
Her voice cracked.
I stepped back, startled. For all our friction, Celine had never cracked like this. She looked up at the ceiling, breathing hard, blinking too fast.
Jonas coughed. “Maybe we should all take a break.”
Celine didn’t wait. She turned and walked away.
Later that night, after hours alone in the studio, I found her outside on the back steps behind the music building, smoking a clove cigarette like it was her only lifeline. Her knees were drawn up, headphones around her neck, face hidden by her jacket hood.
“You okay?” I asked.
She didn’t answer immediately. “I had a panic attack. On stage. That’s never happened before.”
I sat beside her, careful not to touch. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because saying it makes it real.”
We sat in silence for a long time. Then, softly:
“I used to sing to escape things,” she said. “Now it just reminds me what I can’t control.”
I looked at her, really looked. “You don’t have to carry everything alone.”
Celine gave a crooked smile. “You offering to share the weight, Iris?”
I hesitated. “If you let me.”
She exhaled smoke. “Careful. I might take you up on that.”
Neither of us moved. The night was cool, and the faint echo of her off-key performance still haunted my ears.
But there was something deeper now—something like a note struck wrong but held long enough to feel right.
- Writer
